Then, I looked into the second bedroom, the smaller one. Harker slept in a twin bed. There was a desk, where I imagined he’d occasionally do some casework; a bureau where he kept his clothes; and nothing else. A monk could have lived in that room.

I felt bad for him. His personality seemed not to be present in his own home. Yeah, he’d allowed that to happen, but that was such an easy thing to do: allowing other people to imagine you the way they’d like you to be; fulfilling that; being the person they wished you to be. That was always the easier choice. I could see Mrs. Harker crushing him for forty-three years and not even knowing she was doing it.